In search of justice

Chris Middleton's office is
spartan and nondescript. No
degrees or certificates or
awards adorn the bare walls.
“When clients walk into my office,
it’s a clean slate,” says Middleton,
a Chatham County assistant public
defender in Savannah, Ga., who
earned his JD from VLS in 2006.
“We have to establish that attorneyclient
relationship.” It’s not about
Middleton’s academic successes or
community service awards or his
college football career.
“It’s more, ‘I’m Chris Middleton.
I’m a person just like you. You’ve got
a problem. Let’s work together to
solve it,’” he says.
In big cities and rural towns and
quiet suburbs and forgotten backwaters
across the country, Vermont
Law School alumni are having these
conversations with clients. For
alumni choosing the path of the
public defender, the work is often
akin to a calling—the chance to
hold the government accountable,
to fight overzealous prosecution or
government overreaching. To give
voice to individuals who might otherwise
go unheard. To meet another
person at a dark moment in their
life, and provide some guidance and
assistance.
The stakes are incredibly high.
The days are long, the work often
grueling—large caseloads, long
nights. Many public defenders
report that it’s hard, if not impossible,
to leave work at work come
the end of the day.
Loquitur interviewed seven public
defenders, ranging from relative
newcomers to seasoned veterans,
to learn about the motivations,
challenges, and day-to-day life of
the public defender.
An Unequal Playing Field
The Sixth Amendment establishes
the right to counsel in
criminal court proceedings.
The tradition of public defense as we
know it today dates back to the 1963
Supreme Court decision in Gideon
v. Wainwright, in which the court
acknowledged that all accused criminals
have the right to a lawyer—regardless
of income.
The way states and localities
deliver indigent criminal defense
services can vary widely, however.
Some use public defender programs.
Others assign counsel from a pool of
private attorneys, and some contract
with private practices and attorneys.
And often a defendant’s access to
resources—ranging from a district
attorney’s willingness to make a plea
deal to mental health and drug court
alternatives—varies widely, too.
In Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom,
Zachary Weight JD’12 works for
Northeast Kingdom Law, a private
firm in Newport. The state contracts
Weight’s firm to do public defense
work for three counties. His caseload
is a mix of juvenile cases and
adult criminal work.
Weight is struck by what he
sees as the geographic disparity in
resources for defense clients. The
Northeast Kingdom is poor, rural,
and remote. The overwhelming
majority of Weight’s clients struggle
with legal drugs like alcohol, or illegal
drugs such as meth, cocaine,
or heroin. Some have serious and
complicated mental health issues.
And yet, in his county, Weight
says, “We’ve got nothing.” There’s no
drug court, no mental health court—
services his clients desperately need.
The work can be draining at times.
“Most of these people out here,
they don’t have anybody,” says
Weight. “I’m not sure that most of
them ever had anybody. It’s me and
my senior counsel and my staff—
we’re it.”
Focusing on the Wins
clients as young
as 15, charged with armed
“Irepresent
robbery, who are facing a
mandatory minimum of 10 years
without parole,” says Middleton. His
job is to shepherd that client—and
oftentimes, their family members—
through a legal process that can be
scary and overwhelming.
“The lawyer has to be so much
more than just a legal specialist,” he
says. “You wear so many different
hats. You have to be a counselor. You
have to be a job specialist. You have
to be a public relations specialist.”
"Most of the people
out there, they
don't have anybody...
It's me and my senior
counsel and my staff
— we’re it."
LOQUITUR 18